


Vocal Imagery

by Xparrot



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Comment Fic, M/M, Present Tense, Reading Aloud, Temporary Blindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-24
Updated: 2009-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best part about being flashed in the eyes by a THRUSH photon ray (insofar as one can look on the bright side while temporarily blinded) is that Napoleon can't read mission reports himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vocal Imagery

**Author's Note:**

> Comment-fic for Utopian Trunks, prompts: "Muncle, Napoleon &amp; Illya, reading aloud".

The best part about being flashed in the eyes by a THRUSH photon ray (insofar as one can look on the bright side while temporarily blinded) is that Napoleon can't read mission reports himself. But a CEA's work is never done, so for the forty-eight hours he must keep the light-blocking mask bandaged over his eyes, Illya reads them to him.

The reports are the usual fare: Agent Harris, ID#2901, captured by THRUSH Gibraltar at 1730, 9/22, retrieved with microdot plans for satellite-jamming lunar radar dish by Agent Santos, ID#3791, 9/23. But it's not the words or the information; it's Illya's voice as he reads them, low and calm, his deep smooth tone textured by his accent. More British than Russian these days, especially when he reads, crisp consonants and Oxford vowels, sure and evenly pronounced.

Napoleon doesn't like not being able to see, the helplessness of it, not knowing precisely where he is, or anyone else. But now, if he leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes behind the mask, he can pretend that he's only resting his eyelids for a moment; in his mind's eye he can picture Illya perfectly, sitting on the chair across from him, hideous black glasses on his nose, blue eyes intent on the file before him. He can hear in the ease of Illya's voice that he's relaxed; he'll have one leg up, toe of his shoe balanced on the edge of Napoleon's desk, knee supporting his elbow as he holds the file in one hand, his other hand at his side, restless fingers playing with a pen, or maybe a paperclip, if there were a loose one about.

Illya finishes the report, puts it down with a rustle of paper and asks, "Shall we continue?"

He's been reading for a couple hours now, and his throat sounds a little dry. "No, let's call it quits. Don't want to wear out your voice," Napoleon says, sitting up.

"Are you sure? I don't mind," Illya says. "We've only got a few more to go. We could finish them tonight. Unless you've got other plans?"

"None to speak of," Napoleon says. "Not much point in a date if I can't even see the lovely girl I'm with, is there?"

"I suppose not," Illya agrees, and Napoleon doesn't need to see his face to hear the edge of his slight sardonic smile, to know the exact way his lips are curving around the words. Just as he doesn't need to see Illya to know that if he reached out his left hand now, he's close enough to brush Illya's sleeve.

"All right, then, let's finish them," Napoleon says. "I'll buy you a glass of wine to soothe your throat, afterwards."

"Make it a bottle," Illya says, and starts on the next report.


End file.
